We do realize that we are now beering our second child molester and we are more than a little bit worried.  What’s next?  A tribute to Roman Polanski?  Or Woody Allen? Shit.  Okay, third child molester.  Some of us do have significant others that are old enough to buy cigarettes.  Honest.  So let’s just forget how repulsive it is that Mr. Glitter likes little boys and girls: sexually.  We will just talk about how honorable his determination to break the law is.

In the 80′s he was determined to be badass by driving drunk.  It worked pretty well for Vince Neil.  And not one time but three times!  Sounds like a man that knows what he wants.  This man is not only determined to make rock records or endanger the lives of others by piloting a very heavy piece of machinery whilst intoxicated, no.  His warrior-like focus extends to all areas of his life, even those he would probably rather be private.  In 1997 Mr. Glitter walked into his local PC World to get his laptop fixed and  his fascination with pornographic pictures of children would be exposed.  He was convicted in the United Kingdom around ’99 and sent to prison for four months.  Not to be kept down, this horny old goat moved to Cambodia after his release.  A place where he could perhaps be finally understood.  But Mr. Glitter hopped a jet to Vietnam three short years later becuse he was simply trying to live his dream but again found himself in hot water because of the Vietnamese moral police.  Did anyone know that it was illegal to have sex with eleven year old in Vietnam?  Thailand was the next destination for our intrepid man of the world but before he could board the plane he was arrested by the Vietnamese authorities.  And he spent three years in jail.  After he got out and paid the hefty three hundred fifteen dollar fine he assumed he would find safe haven in the promised land of Thailand, only to be denied entry.  Not one to be stopped by government, Mr. Glitter tried Hong Kong.  No luck there either, nor in nine other countries that officially banned him.  And so he disappeared into the ether in search of the illusive garden of earthly (underage) delights.

We fear that it may be a challenge to locate our man in order to buy him this beer.  Our search will take us high and low, but we suspect that we shall find him in some outpost much like the bar in Raiders of the Lost Ark.  We may have to outdrink Karen Black in order to get close to our tenacious hero, but if we can pull the young vagrants off him, the beer will taste glorious.  Like the sweat sweet of an eleven year old?

It’s true, we were once Junior High-Schoolers and we loved “Thunder Kiss ’65“.  We also loved jester hats and Crystal Pepsi.  We thank him for those jams but these days the only songs with two notes we like were made by Germans in the 70′s and not by a bunch of living jokes about the 1990′s that happen to have great taste in movies.  Of all the looks out there to steal, you decide on the Al Jourgensen?  Picking on a rock star for their fashion sense hardly seems fair, especially when you are a decade or two removed from it, so let us discuss how much White zombie’s music stinks.  Worse than a crust punk.  And how about Zombie’s solo career?  Stinks worse than a crust punk’s butthole.  Knowing that a song like “Dragula” could sell just one copy of Hellbilly Deluxe much less take it to number 6 on the charts makes us here at deadman/party rethink our ban on genocide jokes.

As our somewhat loyal readers know, it takes more than just doing one thing poorly to make it to our dis-honor role (they also know it takes us forever to craft these posts) and even shlock that make us wish for an “All Nickelback, All the Time” radio station is not enough to make us put him up on the wall. It took a comment Mr. Zombie made about his sequel to Halloween finally set our blood a boilin’. He basically stated that his new film is a departure from John Carpenter’s because the characters in the original Halloween are flat (the quote can be found in that one Maxim with the hot girl on the cover in the Lube Pros on 27th and Lincoln, the newer issue has a bunch of girls dressed as sexy teletubbies for Halloween: Tinky-Wagina, Po-Tang, Laa-Labia, Dipsy). Flat!  We cannot imagine what that even means coming from the creative juggernaut behind House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects.  Two films about crazy clowns that kill people with their pyscho circus.  Any juggalo could pontificate about their depth.  How dare Mr. Zombie, of all people, call one the movie that he somehow lucked into having a chance to destroy flat!  He should be thanking the God of Michael Bay reboots who is, we imagine, a ponytailed asshole in a BMW who figured out that he could make a bunch of money off of teenage boys by destroying what it means not to put everything on the table.  And just in case you didn’t know, part of what makes John Carpenter’s Halloween so horrifying is the fact that the characters ring true, that they are not bipolar teenage girls that masturbate with crucifixes.

Rob Zombie is an asshole, a filmaker and an idiot.  A mind numbing combination for those of us with any sense.

We skipped THX-1138 simply because we don’t care.  All that comes to our collective conscious is a lot of white (something to figure throughout his whole career, har har).  Next is American Graffiti, which was the pumping of lotion before the massive masturbation session the baby boomers have been having for the past thirty to thirty-five years. Excepting Harrison Ford this movie has really nothing to offer those of us born after 1960.

And then, The Trilogy.  The Holy Trinity of every fat bearded asshole who keeps that other fat bearded asshole, Kevin Smith, making movies.  It must be admitted that we have seen the set a number of times, and saw them when they were re-released into the theaters.  Shoot, we were excited when they re-released them into the theaters, though none us had light saber duels in the ailes, nor did we clap when the Death Star blew up.  Even though we like them, we are firm on the fact that they are not good movies no matter what you say and we know that all of the Yoda shtick is simply obnoxious semi-literate eastern pot smoke philosophy nonsense. Or the teachings of self styled “Buddhist Methodist.” But we walked out of those theaters pissed.  We would have blogged about it if we hadn’t unloaded on the closest AOL chat room.  Why in the fuck would you add that Disney song and dance number into Jabba’s palace?  And why would you get rid of the ewok song?  Most importantly, why would you take some of the very best special effects ever and ruin them with CGI?  This is what happens when you take away the limits to an idiots imagination.  Everything becomes dull.

In the middle of all this he teamed up with Speilberg to make some pretty kick ass adventure movies, but that’s no excuse for a pod race.  And it’s not an excuse for what seems to be an unquenchable thirst for money ringing through the box office registers.  Mr. Lucas owns half of the Presidio, what more could he want?

And then he made a bunch more bullshit that we didn’t bother to see. Really, who cares anymore?  If it wasn’t for Raiders of the Lost Ark, we probably would have forgotten who the hell this guy is.  Even renting something he has done lately is like taking home that 50 year old self-described ‘cougar’ that floats Sex and the City lines at you as you are trying to order a beer.  We don’t care how hot she once may have been, she’s annoying, sad, pathetic and though you may want to go home with her for what promises to be a fun time with a whiff of nostalgia, you are going to find yourself deeply unsatisfied and wondering how that could have ever been good after it’s all over.

: Normally we wouldn't publish something about the non-living, but because of the proximity of our last post to the death of Mr. Jackson we thought the following would be worth sharing.  Keep in mind that it is simply a draft, created a few weeks ago by one the staff who was planning on finishing it up this week.  If you know any of us personally you might want to think twice if we offer to buy you a beer.

We here are deadman/party are all late-night and hangover television watchers and are simply fascinated by what shining beacon Billy Mays is.  His over-excited holler delivery is far superior to that of his close second in the arena of television pitch-men, that vaguely colonial british accent guy.  It is a fond, foggy memory we have of a bearded hulk of a man selling us washing powder mixed with oxygen.  From there he has branched out into the arena of hanging things, ladders that one would use to hang such things and magical kitchen implements that will make tiny burgers meant to travel through the intestinal tract in a flash.

Also, we assume that his penis bears more than a passing resemblance to a mink and, like Charles Bronson’s flesh hammer, has a knuckle.

Is there anyone on Earth that needs a beer more than this man?  A beer and a shot?  We here at deadman/party would be more than happy to buy the motherfucker the whole bar.  Because we love the music. We wake up in the morning, sleepy and hop in the shower.  While in that shower, getting all sudsy we know that we can throw any Michael Jackson single and our day just got happy.  We could be on our way to a funeral but we would be farting unicorns and rainbows all the way to the cemetery.  No other artist even comes close to this pinnacle of positivity.

And before you mention it, we are sick and tired of people bringing the whole molestation thing up.  It is truly sad how often people find a Jay Leno cast-off joke wise.  (And if you must, we would prefer a well timed OJ joke.)  Time and time again we will be extolling the virtues of “Man in the Mirror” and some tired fuck will heave a big sigh, push their glasses up their nose and complain, “You know he touches kids.  Also, wrestling is fake.”  So he has probably touched some kids.  Or he is probably feeling a little conflicted about wanting to touch some kids.  But if you are gonna toss out your copy of Thriller because Michael Jackson is a pervert you best be prepared to toss out Who’s Next; Cats, Cops and Stuff; Ferris Bueler’s Day Off; The Frugal Gourmet Cooks with Wine; Howl and that Gary Glitter suit you’ve been wearing to church.

Leave the man alone and let us buy him a beer.  He has been working hard and deserves a sholder to cry on.  Let it be ours.  And after the tears we can share a few choice words about the ladies in the place.  What good times we will all have.  As long as he keeps his hands above the bar.

Ah yes, the auteur that is Mr. Soderbergh.  His body of work is a pulped, grayish mass of half-baked political ideas, self-indulgent stylization and very attractive actors.  Though the aforementioned could describe scores of directors who are given enough money to house homeless populations of minor American metropolises in order to put there masturbation fantasies upon the big screen, Soderbergh stands out in his particular combination of egomania and utter lack of talent.

Sure Oceans Eleven through Twenty are entertaining.  Who doesn’t love watching famous people having a whole bunch of fun half-assing their way to millions of dollars?  It was like a live action version of the “Celebs.  Just Like Us!” section of People Magazine.  But it isn’t to hard to imagine Joel Schumaker or Barry Sonnenfeld doing a comparable job (please excuse the overtly Jewish names, honestly the first two blockbuster directors that came to mind who have nothing to do with special effects).  But who is willing to defend Erin Brockovich as anything more than a tampon ad crossed with a High School Civics class?  Or Traffic as anything worthwhile at all?  But “Hey!” you say, “He used different filters for each setting of the film!  That’s Artistic!”  Is it really?  Are you in Jr. High?

Now we are not in the business of just shooting down anybody who happens to make a movie that we don’t like.  It is Mr. Soderbergh’s staggering ego tempered by false modesty that puts him here.  To quote, “The fact that I’m not an identifiable brand is very freeing, because people get tired of brands and they switch brands. I’ve never had a desire to be out in front of anything, which is why I don’t take a possessory credit.”  Sounds like a pretty reasonable guy.  Downright modest.  Except when he says things like casting baseball players as themselves (upcoming film version of Moneyball) is the way “movies will be made in the future.”  Just like in the future all movies will be released in theaters and HDnet the same day with the DVD version for sale four days later but no one will see them because they are pieces of shit.  Also porn stars will star in ‘serious’ movies in the future, but as prostitutes because, after all, they are porn stars which precludes one from being anything else unless Mr. Soderbergh swoops down from his intellectual mountain and raises you up to the dizzy heights of HOLLYWOOD.  Does he have a “normal people R people 2″ t-shirt somewhere? Ignoring that, let us applaud a man who refuses to possess his movie, to resign himself to the background of what he creates, just don’t you dare try and ‘steal’ it from him by making an illegal copy or putting it on the Internet.  Mr. Soderbergh, if you want to know the future of movies, you have found it.  Downloading for free. Though in his case it is simply a waste of bandwidth.

We here at deadman/party are not the most fashionable of men (our knowledge is about as current as the copy of GQ they have at the dentist’s office) but we know enough to know when enough is enough.  And we hope to throw Christian Audigier under a bus.  Mr. Audigier is responsible for not only the Von Dutch trucker hat–accessory to the most annoying bitches of all time and one step away from the leather cowboy hat–he is also the man behind the Ed Hardy line of apparel abominations.  Please understand that we are not the type of people to scoff at quasi high-fashion because we don’t work enough hours as claims adjusters to be able to afford it; nor are we the type that thinks that Rustler jeans and a GAP sweatshirt make a suitable outfit for a first date, we just find spending 85 dollars on a t-shirt mass produced by a ‘lifestyle brand’ sickening.

The Von Dutch cheese-grater, mesh-back or, as it is now commonly known, trucker hat is an interesting piece of American fashion.  For a brief period in the early 2000′s it was common enough to see this hat on scummy types cultivating that ‘white trash’ vibe.  Then, suddenly, the human elite that is Hollywood began wearing such hats with a  patch that said ‘Von Dutch.’  Immediately  every don’t-be-jealous asshole in America that could afford a $60 hat was wearing one.  Eventually the hats found their way to TJ Maxx and the saturation was too complete even for those with more money than taste.  Luckily Mr. Audigier’s bird-brain was fast at work, but rather than exploiting Kustom Kulture (and a man who hated money), he cleverly exploited Sailor Jerry’s Rum.  So now every tanned asshole in $200 jeans made to fit over an adult diaper is sporting an Ed Hardy t-shirt.  Unless they are a female tanned asshole, in which case they are sporting a sequined Ed Hardy t-shirt.  If only we could send some sort of death tone to every bluetooth in America.

And the man himself, well he is proud to have ‘created’ (?)  the trucker hat trend and the ‘lifestyle of street couture.’  Also, he is very proud of the over 5000 celebs that wear his trash.  His website even has photos of all the people we admire for their contributions to human history (Liza Minelli, Brittany Spears, DJ Clue, Fergie, etc.) and a bunch of people we have never heard of (who are they? reality stars? celebrity gossip bloggers? people on VH1?) wearing his brands.  The very idea that we would be so impressed by these arguments for abortion wearing Mr. Audigier’s trash makes us feel like screaming at a wall.  This punch heard round the world will be for everyone who understands that more money does not make you a better person, it just amplifies how unjust it is for you to be breathing our precious air.

We must admit we feel a certain hesitancy about this post. To date, the entire roster of deadman/party beered musicians consists of Mike Love, Phil Collins, Ludacris, and Neil Young. All upstanding gentlemen to be sure, but not exactly indicators that we are particularly cool or have heard any music (save Luda) in the last 20 years. Still, we can’t help but throw our support behind the smoothest chanteuse we know of, Sade.

Aside from her good looks, it is difficult to explain exactly why we love Sade so much. Her music contains nearly lethal doses of smooth jazz, which ranks as our least favorite genre of music (well, do pop-punk covers of 80’s hits constitute an entire genre?) and she is beloved by an especially obnoxious brand of liberal yuppie who think that listening to a Nigerian born singer means they are into world music. In spite of ourselves, we can’t help but surrender to her husky, honey soaked alto and those easy repetitive grooves. Try to spend 15 minutes listening to Sade songs and see if you can get those damn things out of your head (spoiler alert: you can’t).

We aren’t the sort of lads who have a secret cabinet full of scented candles and oils used to dish out erotic massages, but if we ever decide to get a cabinet like that, rest assured that it will include a Sade mix cd (we must note that there is a distinct possibility that in jamming to “The Sweetest Taboo” while doing the dishes we are actually creepier than the silk bikini-briefed fellow listening to it while giving his lady a sensual rub down). Sade’s tunes are just about the smoothest things on earth. If you are in the kind of mood where listening to Steely Dan’s Gaucho or the assorted works of James Ingram more of an aural assault than you can handle, pump up the Sade and let quiet storm roll over you. Damn that shit is smooth.

In addition to creating an entire catalogue of smooth masterpieces, Sade (if her 80’s video output is to be believed) is an avid equestrian. The bulk of her videos feature at least one shot of her burning through the desert atop her trusty steed. Her horseback riding is the perfect compliment to the whole Romancing the Stone vibe she was cultivating in those days and even though we should know better, we admit the whole exotic post-colonial thing was pretty fun for awhile. It probably came pretty naturally to her, being born in Nigeria to an African father and English mother and raised in London.  Not cringe inducing like the “Hungry Like the Wolf” video at least. We have a hunch that Sade doesn’t even drink beer, but we want to buy her something. Maybe a nice cognac? Something smooooooth.

Mr. Young also collects two things that we admire, guitars and cars, but both in a way that treads the fine line between decadent and manly.   He has enough guitars to devote a section of his website to them which, unlike Steven Seagal, he does not.  (Though he does find quite a lot of space to devote to how much he hates Bush and the Iraq war, enough space to make him the hero of any liberal arts college in America.)  And unlike Steven Seagal, his guitars are famous because they once belonged to Neil Young.  With the exception of one that belonged to Hank Williams.  We will accept that homage.  Another proof of Mr. Young’s fire and ice mentality is his love of old cars and his efforts to make them green.  There is definitely some sort of penis-directed yearn in all of us to praise old Detroit rolling stock, though our politics demand we like something much better for the world but much more pussy, like a Prius.  Lucky for us, Mr. Young is forging the path of ridiculous mid-life crisis autos that run on ethanol.

Getting a beer with Mr. Young would certainly be at some sort of dimly lit dive bar where they let you smoke cigarettes somewhere in the Central Coast. And from there it would go one of two ways: either a many beers, swapping stories late into the night or some sort of cosmic jam session at some strange dude named Kripsy’s bunker/recording studio near the beach.  Playing folk tunes for about three days straight. Either way would be great, as long as no one mentions Chaney.